| Bluespirit |
| 'A
light in dark places' |
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Not here to
forget
by
Bluespirit
Fandom: Stargate Atlantis
Pairing: Sheppard/McKay
Rating: G
Summary: This is a future!ficlet for 'Alone at a table for
two'.
Series: Wurlitzer 'Verse
Genre: romance, established relationship, fleece fluff
Spoilers: none
Word count: ~ 650
Disclaimer: The following story is a work of fiction. The characters and universe are the property of Stargate (II) Productions, Showtime/Viacom, MGM/UA, Double Secret Productions, Gekko Productions and the Sci-Fi Channel. This fic is meant solely for entertainment purposes and no copyright infringement is intended.
Notes:
1. This is my offering for the fabulous Mcfleece
challenge!
2. This is a future ficlet set in my Wurlitzer 'Verse.
A gravelled voice warning against the danger of naming a boy Sue, or
some other such guitar-twanging, brain-numbing homily, was rumbling
through the open bedroom door as Rodney searched frantically for a clean
pair of socks. He couldn’t believe that after twenty-five years of
unlocking the mysteries of Atlantis they still hadn’t found a way for
the laundry to simply do itself. What was the point of living in another
galaxy, with undreamed of technological advances at his fingertips, if
he still had to remember to wash his own dirty underwear?
“Presumably the Ancients felt themselves too enlightened to wear
socks,” Rodney muttered. “They’d obviously never seen the horrors
perpetrated on Miami Vice.”
He abandoned the clutter of his own closet and yanked open John’s
dresser. If John forgot to remind Rodney about laundry then he’d just
have to live with the consequences and share. To love, honour and
provide with clean underwear - Rodney was sure he’d managed to slip
that into their vows at some point in the proceedings.
He rolled his eyes fondly at the rows of neatly balled socks, colour-coded
and laid out with military precision. John only ever wore black - dress
socks - or white - running socks - but a flash of colour at the back of
the drawer caught Rodney’s eye. He reached in and unearthed a faded
orange fleece, practically hidden beneath the neat, monochromatic rows.
“What?” he murmured, shaking his head. It was his old fleece; a
ratty thing stretched hopelessly out of shape, covered in electrical
burns and with cuffs worn ragged with wear and age. He thought he’d
thrown it out years ago; in fact he was sure he’d thrown it out - he
hadn’t seen it in forever. What was it doing at the back of John’s
sock drawer?
“Hey, Rodney - you ready yet?” John called, walking in and leaning
casually against the doorframe. “We said we’d meet Teyla and Ronon
in the mess before we….” His voice tailed off as Rodney turned
around, the fleece in his hands.
“Where did this come from?” Rodney asked. “I’m sure I got rid of
it when we first moved in together.”
“Yeah, you kinda did,” John said, head down and looking up at Rodney
through smoky lashes. “I rescued it,” he added, sounding defensive
and bashful at the same time. Rodney couldn’t be sure but it looked
like the tips of his ears were turning pink as well.
“You rescued it,” Rodney repeated slowly, walking over to where John
was all but scuffing his toe on the floor. “Why? That was nearly
twenty years ago and you’ve kept it all this time?”
John smiled gently and touched the fleece, shabby and worn but still
soft in Rodney’s hands. “You were wearing this the first time I ever
saw you.”
“What?”
“I was sitting in the chair in Antarctica, not knowing what the hell
was happening to me,” John said, “and there you were - snapping and
scowling and wearing this godawful thing.”
Rodney snorted. “It was so cold and this was the last one they had in
the stores. By that point I was completely beyond caring that it was
bright enough to make people’s eyes bleed.” He stepped closer to
John and smiled, pushing playfully at his shoulder. “But you kept it
all these years anyway - you big sap.”
“Yeah,” John groaned, pulling them together and burying his face in
Rodney’s neck, the fleece downy-soft between them.
“Sap or not, I’m still going to wear your socks,” Rodney said,
pressing a kiss to the silver of John’s hair. He grinned happily as
John’s spluttered laughter gusted across his ear.
The End
Title taken from ‘Wurlitzer Prize (I Don't Want to Get
Over You)’ by Waylon Jennings
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